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riverviewlogs2017-10-16 06:27 pm
imperceptus) wrote in riverviewlogs2017-10-16 06:27 pm
Entry tags:
you are a stranger here; why have you come, why have you come
who: Rin + you
what: Horrible drow memories
when: til the 23rd
where: DREAMS and all around
warnings: blood, violence, abuse (physical; implied dubcon), etc; drow are garbage
[ ooc: feel free to experience any of these memories however you like; the flashes can be dream snippets also if that's easier! run into him or message him or wander into his tranced-out mind; whatever's clever. hmu @![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
runehallow if you need anything. ]
FLASH MEMORIES;
I. PHAROLIN;
[ Rin is six years old, slight and bright-eyed, dressed in fine black silks. He moves like an anxious shadow through the dimly lit halls of his house, searching for someone. There's a sense of urgency as he peeks into room after room, careful to make no noise, to leave no trace. He descends down several staircases, deeper into the estate, deeper into the earth. He hears a voice, and the anxiety turns to terror. There's a smear of blood on the floor, glistening fresh, and a sound thrumming in the darkness. Rin draws near an open door. It's someone singing--a male voice, soft and seemingly gentle, humming a sweet tune. A lullaby that Rin recognizes.
He grips the edge of the door. There's not much to see beyond it, mostly because he won't let himself lean forward; terror grips his gut in a vice, and he feels bile rising in the back of his throat. There's a table, soaked and smeared in red grime, and a pale arm, disembodied, its delicate fingers still twitching. A man's stands before the table, in shadows, his posture completely at ease. He's carving something with a knife, humming all the while.
"Anna?" Rin blurts, and then covers his mouth, trembling. The silhoutte stops humming. Sets down his knife.
Slowly turns. Before the memory finishes, a dangerously quiet voice murmurs beside Rin's ear. "She sang for me the entire time." ]
II. THE ASSASSIN;
[ This memory is fragmented: a knife drawn across a gasping throat, a whisper in the dark, a dark hand rubbing oilcloth over a red-drenched dagger. Rin had taken lessons with this target. They both were recent graduates, both highly ranked. But orders were orders. This old rival had spoken ill of a priestess at a party, made drunk and unwise with wine. Too many spiders heard it. The priestess was an ally of his mother's, and thus: he had a job to do. There is no feeling in this memory; neither uncertainty nor triumph. As the knife flashes and the blood spills, there is no sense of anything at all. There is a void, a chasm, silent and empty.
Beyond the flashes of the target's death and Rin's cleanup afterwards, there are a few more images: returning to report that the deed was done. The priestess splaying her fingers against Rin's chest, her eyes hooded, her demand unspoken. Tension rising in Rin's muscles, then draining abruptly, miserable. A curtain, gauzy and threaded with jewels like stars, falling in place. ]
III. THE CHARLATAN;
[ "Come one, come all!" A man's shouting in a town square. He's a well-dressed drow, grinning like a shark, his blue eyes big and his twilight skin gleaming in the low evening light. He bows to the people approaching him, touches their shoulders with familiarity, puts on sympathetic faces as they tell him of their families, of their ills and travails. He--you--says his name is Gelaste, and he has just the thing for what ails them. Pots of glimmering powder, made from a unicorn's crushed horn. Blessed ointment mixed with tears from the goddess of the harvest herself, distilled by three sisters who produce only small batches and speak only five words per year. A potion for your skin, your stomach, for love everlasting.
All lies, of course. You know it's all lies. But the people are paying, and there's no real harm in it. Right? ]
IV. POTENTIAL;
[ He's three, perhaps four years old, sitting on a red velvet couch in an opulent library. There's a book open on the cushion beside him, and he's squinting at the letters, his palms cupped open in front of him. A few seconds pass, and a sphere of pearlescent light coalesces above his hands, pulsing warm in the otherwise empty room. His eyes widen in pleased awe--and then the sphere bursts, sending bolts of light darting all around the room, disappearing into the bookshelves, knocking papers off of an ornate desk, setting a globe spinning, a light flickering. Hurried footsteps follow, and suddenly there's a tall, elegant woman--your mother, his mother--looming over him, her features lovely and severe. She covers Rin's hands with her own as she kneels down beside him.
"None of that," she says. "None of that anymore."
He swallows audibly, feeling sweat prickle on the back of his neck. His mother's digging her nails into his knuckles, drawing blood.
"Remeber," she says, pressing a cold kiss to the top of his head, "You were made for the knife." ]
B. DREAM MEMORY;I. TRAINING;
[ Rows of young drow boys, about twelve years old, cross swords in a training exercise. Their little skirmishes are brutal, ending only when one boy has knocked his opponent to the ground, drawn blood, or some combination of the two. Rin's battling a boy a little bigger than he is, evading his partner's lunges easily, grinning like it's a fun game that he happens to very good at. They go on like this for a few minutes: lunge, evade, lunge, evade. A teacher comes by, scowling.
"Finish it," he says.
Rin glances at the teacher, and narrowly avoids the lunge that time--but though his opponent is strong, he's clumsy and slow. Rin shrugs. After the next attempt, he counters, striking a glancing blow to the boy's shoulder. Not enough to draw blood, but the boy groans, clutching at where he was struck. Rin presses his advantage, slamming his opponent with his elbow, and the other boy goes down. The boy cries out, doubles over.
"Oh," Rin says, all excitement draining. "Sorry. Here--"
He moves to help his opponent back up, but as soon as their hands clasp together, Rin finds himself suddenly thrown to the cave floor. His back cracks as it hits rough stone, and he whimpers, tears filling his eyes.
"Zavin is the victor," the teacher says. The boy laughs.
"But I won," Rin says dumbly, feeling cold wash over him suddenly. He wipes his eyes, looks from Zavin to the instructor, both of whom regard him now with absolute contempt.
"No," the instructor says, loosing a whip from his belt. "You did not." ]
II. IRRIANA;
[ The cavern is not spacious. Glowing mushrooms choke its low ceiling and line the small, still pond beside the two drow that occupy it; the pondwater shimmers too, filled to the brim with pale, blind fish. Rin sits on a flat rock, shirtless, his eyes squeezed shut. A woman stands beside him, dabbing a wound on his back with smears of ointment.
"That hurts worse than the lash," he hisses, clutching his knees. Tears well in the corners of his eyes.
"Healing is like that, sometimes," the woman says. She smooths a bandage over the deep, fresh weal on his back, sighing as he whimpers from the pain of contact. "It'll be all right. Cry if you need to--there's no shame in it."
He pulls away as soon as she's done, covering his face with his hands. "That's not what the teachers say."
"Well, they're a pack of fools," she says, scooting closer to him on the rock. He sniffs, and she reaches for him, cupping his chin in her hand.
"I don't want to go back there, Irriana," he says, then cringes at how pathetic he sounds. The miserable drone of his voice.
"Oh, darling," she murmurs. "We have to. But I promise--there is a life beyond this life. A world beyond this world."
"When?"
"One day," she says. "One day, I promise. But we've got to return now. Don't make me carry you." She flexes one arm, winking. "You know I can."
"Fine," he says, sulkily. "Get the knife. You do it this time."
Irriana draws a small, thin dagger from her pouch, frowning. "All right. Just a little nick."
She leans forward as he shuts his eyes, then swipes the blade across his cheekbone. Blood wells from the cut, and he grits his teeth. She takes his hand, and they stand up together, heading out of the cavern. Rin opens his eyes, staring straight ahead. He doesn't cry. ]
what: Horrible drow memories
when: til the 23rd
where: DREAMS and all around
warnings: blood, violence, abuse (physical; implied dubcon), etc; drow are garbage
[ ooc: feel free to experience any of these memories however you like; the flashes can be dream snippets also if that's easier! run into him or message him or wander into his tranced-out mind; whatever's clever. hmu @
FLASH MEMORIES;
I. PHAROLIN;
[ Rin is six years old, slight and bright-eyed, dressed in fine black silks. He moves like an anxious shadow through the dimly lit halls of his house, searching for someone. There's a sense of urgency as he peeks into room after room, careful to make no noise, to leave no trace. He descends down several staircases, deeper into the estate, deeper into the earth. He hears a voice, and the anxiety turns to terror. There's a smear of blood on the floor, glistening fresh, and a sound thrumming in the darkness. Rin draws near an open door. It's someone singing--a male voice, soft and seemingly gentle, humming a sweet tune. A lullaby that Rin recognizes.
He grips the edge of the door. There's not much to see beyond it, mostly because he won't let himself lean forward; terror grips his gut in a vice, and he feels bile rising in the back of his throat. There's a table, soaked and smeared in red grime, and a pale arm, disembodied, its delicate fingers still twitching. A man's stands before the table, in shadows, his posture completely at ease. He's carving something with a knife, humming all the while.
"Anna?" Rin blurts, and then covers his mouth, trembling. The silhoutte stops humming. Sets down his knife.
Slowly turns. Before the memory finishes, a dangerously quiet voice murmurs beside Rin's ear. "She sang for me the entire time." ]
II. THE ASSASSIN;
[ This memory is fragmented: a knife drawn across a gasping throat, a whisper in the dark, a dark hand rubbing oilcloth over a red-drenched dagger. Rin had taken lessons with this target. They both were recent graduates, both highly ranked. But orders were orders. This old rival had spoken ill of a priestess at a party, made drunk and unwise with wine. Too many spiders heard it. The priestess was an ally of his mother's, and thus: he had a job to do. There is no feeling in this memory; neither uncertainty nor triumph. As the knife flashes and the blood spills, there is no sense of anything at all. There is a void, a chasm, silent and empty.
Beyond the flashes of the target's death and Rin's cleanup afterwards, there are a few more images: returning to report that the deed was done. The priestess splaying her fingers against Rin's chest, her eyes hooded, her demand unspoken. Tension rising in Rin's muscles, then draining abruptly, miserable. A curtain, gauzy and threaded with jewels like stars, falling in place. ]
III. THE CHARLATAN;
[ "Come one, come all!" A man's shouting in a town square. He's a well-dressed drow, grinning like a shark, his blue eyes big and his twilight skin gleaming in the low evening light. He bows to the people approaching him, touches their shoulders with familiarity, puts on sympathetic faces as they tell him of their families, of their ills and travails. He--you--says his name is Gelaste, and he has just the thing for what ails them. Pots of glimmering powder, made from a unicorn's crushed horn. Blessed ointment mixed with tears from the goddess of the harvest herself, distilled by three sisters who produce only small batches and speak only five words per year. A potion for your skin, your stomach, for love everlasting.
All lies, of course. You know it's all lies. But the people are paying, and there's no real harm in it. Right? ]
IV. POTENTIAL;
[ He's three, perhaps four years old, sitting on a red velvet couch in an opulent library. There's a book open on the cushion beside him, and he's squinting at the letters, his palms cupped open in front of him. A few seconds pass, and a sphere of pearlescent light coalesces above his hands, pulsing warm in the otherwise empty room. His eyes widen in pleased awe--and then the sphere bursts, sending bolts of light darting all around the room, disappearing into the bookshelves, knocking papers off of an ornate desk, setting a globe spinning, a light flickering. Hurried footsteps follow, and suddenly there's a tall, elegant woman--your mother, his mother--looming over him, her features lovely and severe. She covers Rin's hands with her own as she kneels down beside him.
"None of that," she says. "None of that anymore."
He swallows audibly, feeling sweat prickle on the back of his neck. His mother's digging her nails into his knuckles, drawing blood.
"Remeber," she says, pressing a cold kiss to the top of his head, "You were made for the knife." ]
B. DREAM MEMORY;I. TRAINING;
[ Rows of young drow boys, about twelve years old, cross swords in a training exercise. Their little skirmishes are brutal, ending only when one boy has knocked his opponent to the ground, drawn blood, or some combination of the two. Rin's battling a boy a little bigger than he is, evading his partner's lunges easily, grinning like it's a fun game that he happens to very good at. They go on like this for a few minutes: lunge, evade, lunge, evade. A teacher comes by, scowling.
"Finish it," he says.
Rin glances at the teacher, and narrowly avoids the lunge that time--but though his opponent is strong, he's clumsy and slow. Rin shrugs. After the next attempt, he counters, striking a glancing blow to the boy's shoulder. Not enough to draw blood, but the boy groans, clutching at where he was struck. Rin presses his advantage, slamming his opponent with his elbow, and the other boy goes down. The boy cries out, doubles over.
"Oh," Rin says, all excitement draining. "Sorry. Here--"
He moves to help his opponent back up, but as soon as their hands clasp together, Rin finds himself suddenly thrown to the cave floor. His back cracks as it hits rough stone, and he whimpers, tears filling his eyes.
"Zavin is the victor," the teacher says. The boy laughs.
"But I won," Rin says dumbly, feeling cold wash over him suddenly. He wipes his eyes, looks from Zavin to the instructor, both of whom regard him now with absolute contempt.
"No," the instructor says, loosing a whip from his belt. "You did not." ]
II. IRRIANA;
[ The cavern is not spacious. Glowing mushrooms choke its low ceiling and line the small, still pond beside the two drow that occupy it; the pondwater shimmers too, filled to the brim with pale, blind fish. Rin sits on a flat rock, shirtless, his eyes squeezed shut. A woman stands beside him, dabbing a wound on his back with smears of ointment.
"That hurts worse than the lash," he hisses, clutching his knees. Tears well in the corners of his eyes.
"Healing is like that, sometimes," the woman says. She smooths a bandage over the deep, fresh weal on his back, sighing as he whimpers from the pain of contact. "It'll be all right. Cry if you need to--there's no shame in it."
He pulls away as soon as she's done, covering his face with his hands. "That's not what the teachers say."
"Well, they're a pack of fools," she says, scooting closer to him on the rock. He sniffs, and she reaches for him, cupping his chin in her hand.
"I don't want to go back there, Irriana," he says, then cringes at how pathetic he sounds. The miserable drone of his voice.
"Oh, darling," she murmurs. "We have to. But I promise--there is a life beyond this life. A world beyond this world."
"When?"
"One day," she says. "One day, I promise. But we've got to return now. Don't make me carry you." She flexes one arm, winking. "You know I can."
"Fine," he says, sulkily. "Get the knife. You do it this time."
Irriana draws a small, thin dagger from her pouch, frowning. "All right. Just a little nick."
She leans forward as he shuts his eyes, then swipes the blade across his cheekbone. Blood wells from the cut, and he grits his teeth. She takes his hand, and they stand up together, heading out of the cavern. Rin opens his eyes, staring straight ahead. He doesn't cry. ]
a fun combination!!
Instead, he avoids sleeping for a while, not wanting to run the risk of seeing more, or seeing it with the owner there to witness it too (that's the worst part of all of this, he thinks, having to relieve all this shit) but he can't stay awake forever.
When he finds himself in a cave, the next time he drifts off, he's relieved that it isn't that house and that man and that fucking singing.
As soon as he sees two drow, he knows exactly who this memory belongs to, and the rest of it slots into place.]
Fuck.
[Eloquent as always.]
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iii.
It's not so unfamiliar a scene for Ginko, honestly. The majority of his living is an honest one, using his knowledge of mushi to help people as he could. But...well, sometimes you need money to put food in your stomach, and people have no need of the legitimate services you have to offer. And in those cases, really, who does it harm to engage in a little imaginative salesmanship?
He snickers a little softly as he comes out of the vision, regarding the drow with amusement.]
It's always the love potions, isn't it.
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